Despite the Rust
Somewhere, water is dripping.
echoing against the concrete walls,
falling through a pocked roof,
or emptying through broken pipes.
There are certainly enough of them.
Pipes rusted from two decades of abandonment,
the careful road map of movement,
steam and chemicals perfectly directed,
Rube Goldberg and engineering at its finest,
now just a puzzle with a few pieces missing,
not unlike yourself, in days gone past,
the difference being, others felt me worth
the repairs, and today, the pipes connect,
a bit imperfectly perhaps, but happily steaming away,
a new kind of factory, alive and useful
despite the rust and repairs.
About this Poem
I have so many to thank for helping me out of my abyss. And I am so grateful to each of them.
The picture was taken at Mass MoCA, which is housed in what was once an old factory.